Chapter 23 — Parents Day

Agull flying over Kennebec Academy at 9:30 that spring morning would have seen the sun glinting on an acre of automobile roofs and people moving toward the classrooms as if drawn by invisible wires. The classrooms filled up, overflowed. Parents looked sideways at the bulletin boards eager to see their sons’ work distinguished. Extra chairs were brought in. Expectant silence settled. Each teacher in the half period allotted to him wanted to show his course, himself, and his boys at their best. Although none actually staged or rehearsed their “classes,” they were rather carefully planned and most went off smoothly. Mr. Floyd led Joe Rotch’s class of seniors through a review discussion of All My Sons with emphasis on the morality of supplying defective cylinder blocks to the Air Force because “everybody did it,” a discussion which quickly drew in several parents with very strong opinions. Mr. Marvin had Henry Phillips and Tommy Brown explain the derivation and application of the quadratic formula, a discussion to which Billy Edwards was able to add a little. Gus Cunningham, somewhat overstimulated by the presence of a room full of adults, started to question his Ancient History class on the fall of the Roman Empire, got carried away by his subject, delivered half a lecture himself, and got caught by the bell. Fritz Bauer, who had been through Parents’ Day many times, opened a discussion on oral history and listened with his class to accounts of Pearl Harbor, the McCarthy hearings, Viet Nam, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and Bath Iron Works launchings. French -1 unfortunately did not meet because Alice was in Portland in cap and gown receiving her degree and would not be back until afternoon. Alex Colburn produced the sensation of the morning. He had been holding a science competition in his chemistry class, the finals of which were to be judged by the assembled parents, parents of contestants included, as it was assumed that each would vote for his own, thus evening the score. Glenn Weatherby was first. He dissolved phosphorous in carbon tetrachloride and wrote invisibly on a piece of paper with the colorless liquid. As he held it up before the crowded room, the carbon tetrachloride dried, leaving the phosphorous, which scorched the paper, bringing out the script, SCIENCE IS FUN. But Glenn had been too heavy handed with the phosphorous so that before the last letters appeared, the entire paper was in flames. Startled, Glenn dropped the paper. It fell in the wastebasket, blazed up briefly, but was quickly extinguished as Mr. Colburn moved to the rescue. The other contestant, Andrew Travis, delivered a short lecture on the properties of metallic sodium, explaining that it is so active that it combines instantly with water, even with the water in the air, so must be kept submerged in a bottle of kerosene. With tongs he brought out a stick of sodium, cut off a crumb with his knife, carefully put the stick back in the kerosene and dropped the crumb in a dish of water. The crumb sizzled and buzzed about the surface as the reaction drove it. Andrew explained that the gas given off was hydrogen and that with a bigger piece; the heat of the reaction would ignite the hydrogen. He cut off a larger piece, turned out the lights so the flame would be visible, and dropped the piece in the water. The piece was too big. The reaction proceeded explosively with a flash and a loud report, splashing water all over the desk and the nearest spectators. Andy reached for the bar of sodium, now wet, hot, and giving off hydrogen, and was about to drop it back in the kerosene when Mr. Colburn grabbed his arm and shouted, “Not in the kerosene.” The dark, the flash, the bang, the flying water, and “Not in the kerosene” coming simultaneously, ignited panic. Mr. Colburn quickly hit the light switch, held up both hands high, and said 107

loudly and calmly that all was well. Fathers and mothers came out from under desks, and boys from the front row came back from the hall, none of them remembering how they got there. No vote was taken. In deference to the refined tastes and modest appetites of the parents, the usual Saturday lunch of hot dogs and beans gave way to chicken salad and potato chips. The crew, however, were not present. They had eaten early – spaghetti for carbohydrate loading – because the races were to be run at two o’clock when the tidal Kennebec ceased rushing from the sea to the mountains and paused before rushing from the mountains to the sea. At the boathouse after lunch the crews of the first four boats in clean, new rowing shirts, red with a yellow “KA” on the left front, sat on the grass nervously waiting in the shade of the building. The managers under the eye of Cap Milliken had cleaned, oiled, checked and tightened every oar lock, rigger bolt, stretcher, seat and slide in each of the first four boats and had cleaned and anointed the bottoms with lemon oil, the scent of which still hung in the air. Cap’s gospel, repeated weekly to managers was, “Anyone can lose a boat race, but it takes everyone to win one, including managers!” The Androscoggin managers were busy tightening bolts and rubbing down their own shells, laid out on horses on the lawn. Coaches Cunningham and Whitmore, dressed formally in pressed khaki pants, white shirts, neckties and blue blazers and hung about with stopwatches, were up the river taking the coxes, strokes and coaches of the Androscoggin crews over the course in the launches. Whitmore had rowed in Canada and at the Henley Royal Regatta in England and liked to see the ceremonious traditions of gentlemen oarsmen maintained. As the heavily-loaded launches plowed back into the cove and slowed alongside the float, Cap called, “Fourth boat.” Joe Hanson took the bow of the shell and started the familiar launching ritual with, “Hands on. Lift on three.” Billy with his crew watched the fourth boats push off, followed by the launches with the coaches of both schools, Whitmore carrying the two referee’s flags, one white and one red. Out on the point north of the cove went Gil, head manager, carrying a big orange flag on a six-foot pole to flag the finish. There was already a crowd on the point, colorful in summer clothes. The boats disappeared around the point. Nothing happened for a long time. Nothing at all happened. Everyone on the point and at the boathouse waited. The Kennebec lay calm and blue, ruffled only slightly by a light air from the south bringing a hint of North Atlantic chill to the warm sun. The trees on the far bank were a cloud of new green with blotches of dark green spruce and chalk lines of birch trunks. A board floated slowly up the river on the last of the flood tide, circled the cove. A manager pushed off in a punt, paddled out with one oar, picked it up lest it damage a shell. Still nothing happened. Then the orange flag on the point suddenly rose over the heads of the crowd, waving in the gentle breeze. People on the point pressed toward the shore, clustered around the flag. The oarsmen waiting by the boathouse stood up, the managers clustered on the float, the Androscoggin crews crowded on the wharf. From the point floated thin cries of encouragement and enthusiasm. The crews appeared around the point, sprinting splashily for the finish. The launches followed close behind, Coach Whitmore standing tall in the leading one holding the white flag low. Gil’s orange flag on the point dropped then rose again instantly. Cheers from the point, thinned by distance. Who won? The coach raised the white flag over his head as the launch scooted close to the orange flag. He raised his megaphone to his ear, listened, then announced, “Androscoggin by four feet.” Cheers from the Androscoggin crews. “Third boat,” said Cap. “Here we go.” “Hands on. Lift on three,” began Billy confidently.

With the boat in the water, oars in place, riggers held by two managers, Gus came alongside in the launch, stepped ashore. “The fourth rowed a good race, led for the first half by half a length, but fell apart in the sprint. Never mind them. Row your own race. Not too fast on the start, Sam, but very strong, very clean, and very quick with the hands. Then ten big ones to get her going. I want to see puddles you could hide a dog in. Settle to about 36 and keep it long. If you are ahead by half a length, go down to 34 and make it as strong as you can. Don’t rush the slides and stay together. Billy, you keep them together. Then about three strokes from the twin birch, pull the plug. Go up to 40. That’s high enough, and stay together. Watch the blade work and hit the catch hard. If they are ahead in the middle, stay at 36, and whatever happens, even if you have to sprint in the middle, don’t get behind by open water or you’re dead. Have a good row, men.” As the managers pushed the shell off, Alice came pelting down over the bank and jumped into the launch with Gus and the Androscoggin coach. Billy went through the regular procedure for getting under way and took his crew gently up the river toward the start, Androscoggin’s third boat close astern, the launches following behind. Billy watched the oars critically. The boat was balanced perfectly, oars off the water on the recovery, smooth acceleration on every catch, oars rising cleanly out of the puddles. The boat felt good to him. “How’s it feel, Sam?” “Good. We’re ready.” The two crews crept down toward the starting line together, Kennebec a little ahead, Coach Whitmore in the launch holding the red flag high over his head, megaphone in his other hand, the Androscoggin coaches tense, thumbs on stopwatch. Sam called across to the Androscoggin stroke the traditional question, “Shirts?” “Shirts,” answered the stroke. “Hold her back a little, Billy,” said Sam quietly. “Don’t be ahead or he’ll stop us dead. Get your hand up.” “Hold all,” said Billy quietly, holding his hand straight up over his head as a signal he was not ready to start. Androscoggin ranged up even, the cox’s hand up. “Bow pairs, both boats, one easy stroke. Easy,” called Whitmore “Easy, Billy,” said Sam tensely. “Easy,” repeated Billy, his breath short, his stomach tight. “Hold hard, lane 2. Hold water lane 1. Billy came even with the Androscoggin cox. Both hands came down. “Ready all,” from the launch. “Row!” The back of the seat hit Billy hard as all four oars caught the river, then again and instantly again in three short hard strokes. Then the ten big ones. Billy banged them out with the toggles on the rudder lines, leaning far forward, watching the oars – “You’re late, Ted,” – watching his course, steering on the recovery. “9...10 ...We have one seat, Sam.” The stroke lengthened. The boat felt good. The oars dipped together, rose out of the puddles together, hit the catch with an inspiring surge of power. “I got one more seat, Sam.” “Hang in,” gasped Sam. “We’re half way, Sam. Power 10” “Power 10,” called Billy rapping smartly with his toggles. Sam laid it on. There was splashing. The boats held even for a stroke. Then Kennebec dropped back. “Get together, guys,” screamed Billy. “Ted, you’re early.” “Starboard. White flag. Starboard,” from Sam.

“Lane 1, come starboard.” From the launch. Everything was happening at once. The boat lurched to port. Sam and Jack at number 2 dragged their oars out, missed a stroke. Androscoggin surged ahead. Billy saw the cox’s back, a big red A on a white shirt as he corrected his course. “Go down, Sam. Go down and get ’em together – finish high port, hands low starboard. Stay with Sam and keep the power on. Pour it on, together.” On each catch Billy called “Hit it ...Hit it ...Hit it.” Kennebec was two seats back now “We’re holding ’em, Sam.” “Going up.” “Going up. All together now. Hit it”…We’re gaining on ’em. Pour it on.” “Birch tree coming up, Sam.” “Pull the plug. Here we go.” “Up together. Hit it hard ... hard ... hard.” on each catch. Each stroke came quicker, harder and miraculously together. The boat seemed airborne. Bubbles singing under the planking. Billy was leaning far forward, his arms straining on the steering toggles, lifting the boat with all the strength of his spirit. All five men, four oars, fragile cedar shell were one creature with one single driving principle. “I’ve almost got the cox. Get him for me. Get him... I’ve got him. I’ve got him. Give me ten big ones now to put it away, ten big ones. A fierce intensity in his voice. Across the other boat, Billy saw the flag on the point held high. 6, 7, 8. The flag flashed down and up again instantly. “Let ’er run.” All four boys flopped over their oars, gasping for breath. Billy, too, felt drained, breathless. Gus and Alice slipped alongside. “Well rowed,” said the Androscoggin coach. “Who won?” gasped Sam. “You got it! You got it by a foot,” said Gus, still choked up and breathless himself. “It was that close. I thought you were gone when you fell apart in the middle. Nice recovery, Sam, and an elegant sprint.”

“Vive!” said Alice. “Billy did it. He got us together.” As they paddled gently into the cove, Butch took the first boat out on the way to the start, the seconds having already gone up. The first boat looked like winners. Four tall, strong lean young men, rowing together smoothly, easily, perfectly controlled, shell and oars shining in the sun over the green water near the shore. Butch, confident, one with his crew, in command. By the time the first boat raced, Billy and his crew were standing together behind Gil with the flag on the point, carrying Androscoggin shirts carelessly tossed over their shoulders. Looking far up the river, they saw the flurry of white water at the start, then the two boats rowing together, not knowing which was ahead, then no doubt about it as the first boat swept across the finish line a length ahead, magnificently graceful, magnificently powerful.

Meanwhile on the field between the back of the school and the river the baseball game with Mt. Bigelow had made its way into the ninth inning. The sun was warm. The big white pines sheltered the field from the wind. Summer shirts and jackets showed a kaleidoscope of colors. Parents, friends, faculty, visitors, boys and their girlfriends talked, dozed, listened to rock music on portable radios, ate and drank whatever the machines by the gym disgorged for quarters, and some of them watched the game. To lovers of baseball, the situation was tense. It was to be resolved in the next two instants. Kennebec was behind by two runs with one out and two runners on base. Jerry Katz was taking a lead off second base and O’Neal off first. Coach Johnson, ever the strategist, saw the Mt. Bigelow shortstop

move toward second base to get behind Jerry. He flashed Jimmy at bat the signal to bunt down the third base line. At this precise instant, as the pitcher was in the midst of his wind-up, a number of different things were happening. On the top bench in the stands, where his portable radio worked best, Jimmy’s father was tuned to Fenway Park listening to the Red Sox scoop up another victory. Someone in Boston hit a high fly. Going ... going ... at this instant it was up in the air. Mr. Sawyer, Headmaster, an athlete himself and much interested in the game before him, was playing another game. At this same instant he was saying to Mr. Ashcroft, next to him, “We have a good small school here, but we badly need to grow. For instance, we have only three boys in Calculus. We cannot afford an expert math teacher to teach a class of only three, but we can’t afford not to teach Calculus ... ” Mr. Sawyer missed the bunt signal. Ashcroft, tired from a long morning’s drive, overheard Jimmy’s father’s radio and was distracted. At this same instant, Mrs. Johnson, the coach’s wife was half listening to Mrs. Phelps, whose son lived over the Johnsons in Brackett House. “...and he used to beg milk from the neighbors to feed to that awful cat. I was so embarrassed! And Mr. Phelps called it a mangy old flea pasture ...” Mrs. Johnson caught the bunt sign and gripped the bench hard.

The Mt. Bigelow center fielder at this precise instant was watching a pretty little sloop beating down the river against the tide. The shortstop was moving toward second, hoping to catch Jerry off base. Jerry saw the bunt sign and broke for third. O’Neal on first saw the bunt sign and dug for second. Jimmy at bat missed the bunt sign, tensed to win the game with a home run and come in a hero. The pitcher finished his wind-up, delivered the ball. The first instant passed into the second instant. Jimmy connected for a hard line drive between first and second. Jimmy’s father looked up at the crack of the bat, saw someone running, wasn’t sure who it was, and groaned as the outfielder in Boston dropped the fly. Mr. Sawyer forgot about Mr. Ashcroft, his new dormitory and his new math teacher and yelled,

“Run!”

At the same instant, Mrs. Johnson saw Jimmy had missed the bunt sign, lost all interest in young Phelps’s cat, and yelled, “Run!” Many others yelled, “Run!” Mrs. Phelps looked up, not sure why all the boys were suddenly running around so, and forgot to close her mouth. Coach Johnson, aware that his runners would have to tag up if the ball was caught, yelled, “Hold it!” The Mt. Bigelow shortstop reached second base. The Mt. Bigelow pitcher ducked. The Mt. Bigelow center fielder snapped back to the game too late to see the ball coming. The Mt. Bigelow second baseman playing between first and second did not have time to think. Instinctively he leaped toward the ball’s trajectory, glove outstretched. The smack of ball on glove spun him halfway around in mid-air, but he came down with the ball, tossed it underhand to the shortstop standing on second base. The game was over! Everyone stopped, stopped still, astonished. The runners, Coach Johnson, the umpires, the people in the stands … they stopped. Silence for a second. Then the instant fell apart. Parents’ Day was over.